Monday, April 27, 2009

Until quite recently American boasted a Society for Indecency to Naked Animals.

As Peter Fryer nicely observes, it should have been “against” rather than “for”- “but the founder was stricken in years when he drew up his will.”

What worried the Society was the sight of naked sex organs on animals. In consequence, efforts were quickly made to design bikinis for stallions, petticoats for cows, knickers for bulldogs and boxer shorts for small animals.

One time in Cincinnati, I shared an apartment with a Vietnamese tailor. He was a nervous little man, as frail and bony as a ninety-year old. Specializing in impossibly-elaborate Vietnamese wedding gowns, he was probably one of the most industrious people I have ever met. With brittle strawberry colored hair and over-sized T-shirts and a crumpled smile-frown, he was a kind of curiosity of the apartment building, like a real-life gnome.

The smells of his cooking, a building filled with the aroma of boiled fish and cabbage, tended to push the limited tolerance of a multi-cultural society. The worst part of it was that, although the smell of the food could possibly have fumigated a urban slum, the end result was generally nothing more than a pale watery soup with a forlorn potato. Shrimp-flavored rain water.

One evening, after pulling a twelve-hour shift in the mall, I arrived home and was intercepted in the corridor by the building manager. Willard was the type of man that any mildly talented cartoonist could render with a few bold strokes. Scratching his belly, he looked at me, with a rather amused and sheepish expression. "I oughta tell you something before you go inside," he began, mysteriously.

"Your roommate came to us. He was screaming and acted like a nut. He kept saying something but we couldn't understand what the hell he was talking about. Murder, he was shouting. Blood."

I unlocked the door. "What?"

The apartment was dark but the air was moist and creepy. My dog, Sheba, emerged from the blackness, wide-eyed, jumpy and clearly relieved at my homecoming. My roommate was no where to be be seen.

"The people upstairs. She was emptying her water bed into the bath tub. With a hose. Then, she up and decides to leave. Go out shopping. The hose pops out and floods the whole place."

"Ah, geeze." I turned on the light and immediately saw a wide oval of dark red across the ceiling, where the water had evidently leaked through her rust-colored carpet. It loomed over me like some immense crimson fingerprint.

I could imagine the scene. My roommate is busily trying to fit the zipper into the back of some satin dress. He looks up and sees, to his horror, a widening scarlet circle above his head and supposes some kind of massacre has just occurred in the apartment above. Then he escapes, grabbing whatever was at hand in a blind panic, just as he had fled his home country years before.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Clam worms usually crawl through the ooze on the ocean bed and don’t do much else. But when they start feeling sexy, they change into swimming worms so different in appearance that for a long time, they were thought to be an entirely different species. In 1860, a Gottingen naturalist recognized that there heteronereids were sexual forms of the ooze-dwelling nereids. The males even dance about- often at new moon and high tide- during which they emit sperm and hormones released from the clouds of sperm stimulate the females to lay eggs.

Monday, April 20, 2009

My parents used to tell me a peculiar local story about a widow that had once lived not too far from them. The events occurred during the closing year of the Second World War. The widow’s son, like many Arkansas farm boys, had gone off to fight in Europe. His letters faithfully arrived every few weeks, a marvel to his worried mother with tales of wonder and accounts of the mundane events of war life. One day, the letters stopped. A silence of weeks followed. And then, much to his mother’s fear, a letter from the United States Army arrived. The type-written official letter grimly explained that her son had fallen somewhere in Italy in an unreported battle. Due to the circumstances of his death, there was apparently no possibility of sending his remains home.

Being her only son, she was quite naturally devastated by the news and her neighbors, her church congregation, and her relatives provided what solace they could.

However, much to the astonishment of everyone in the small town, a new letter from the dead son arrived in his mother’s post box. Initial shock faded when it was widely supposed that the son had evidently written this final letter before his death and the letter had been delayed. However, the letter told the mother to ignore the news of his death, that there had been a mix-up and he was still quite alive and unhurt and would be explaining everything in due course.

What a miracle it must have seemed. After the months of worry, the shock of the news of her son’s death and the grief of his loss. And then to hear that it had all been a mistake.

And yet, in a final twist, his mother heard nothing more from her resurrected son. Weeks passed into months. The Germans surrendered and the war in Europe was ended. “We all thought that as soon as the war was over, they’d all be coming home,”my mother once told me,”Of course, that wasn’t how it turned out at all.”

Years passed and the mother heard nothing more from her missing son and spent the next twenty years of her life waiting for some kind of explanation. The townspeople tended to avoid the widow, unable to decide what exactly to think about the events and how to react.

This hilarious book immortalizes the craze that began while DJ Carl Morris was having a bit of fun in a Wales bar. Here is how Sleevefacing works: You find an old-school vinyl record sleeve with a nice head-shot of your musical icon (Elvis or David Bowie or Debbie Harry will do nicely), put the sleeve in front of your face, and strike a pose. Now get someone to snap your photo.

Let me be the first to ask: What the hell is Naturama? Looking the woman- a so-called juvenile- I can’t really understand whether she is being attacked or whether she is bumping and grinding with the kind assistance of the groin of the man behind her. “Jet-propelled gang”? Must have been the lentils.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

I wrote this letter to my parents about a week after I arrived in Turkey. It was in fact the first letter I wrote after I decided to stay. I was attempting to explain my reasons. Is it still true? I am not so sure, some things have changed here perhaps. I was living in a small town back then and maybe that was a factor. I don't know. Anyway, here is a copy of the original.

Dear Mother and Dad,

It was good to hear your voice when I called and really, your reaction to my news made me so proud. Everyone could clearly see on my face how happy you made me. The decision to stay here was a difficult one to make as you can understand, and it took a lot of time and thinking to be sure. There were many things to consider.

But sometimes, I believe, it is impossible to realize how unhappy you are until you something, some other life, to compare. When I came to Turkey, it was obvious to me.

As I told you on the phone, all the rules you taught me since I was a child- the rules of social conduct- just didn't seem to work out so well for me. They always seemed a bit impractical and naive, given all I had seen, felt and done.

But I firmly believe that your rule are correct. I mean, maybe people should behave that way, but I couldn't find so many that actually did. People I met and knew, usually found it easier to behave in a way, not exactly bad but without any sort of rule whatsoever. Certainly living like that, following rules is a way that the world no longer seems to recognize. I always seemed about to lose hope or to join in with that way of thinking.

But somehow I never quite surrendered that faith you taught me. You have seen the pain I went through over the years. I never really knew how much you gave me and how much I learned from you until I began to travel. Those rules you ingrained in me work so much better here. They seemed to be practiced as a matter of course. You can observe them in daily action in Turkey.

Not long after I arrived here, I was told a story along these lines. It's supposed to be true and it sounds plausible enough. There was a fruit seller on the street. While he was working, he heard the call for prayer and since the mosque was nearby, he left his station and went to pray. Meanwhile, in his absence, the customers came and went. The man was kept longer than he had anticipated and when he finally returned, there was pile of kurus near the fruit from each customer.

This sort of thing would be unbelievable nowadays in the USA. But I have seen things like this in Turkey. The rules of behavior- the most important lessons any parent can teach their children- are old-fashioned where I came from. They have vanished but they somehow remain here for the moment in Turkey.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Unless you live under a rock, you know about the Scottish woman who has taken the industrialized World by storm: Susan Boyle.

Ms. Boyle, who appeared on a reality TV show called "Britains' Got Talent" last Saturday, April 11th and wowed a cynical audience and the judges, including the irascible Simon Cowell (also of American Idol) with her powerful performance of "I Dream A Dream" from Les Miserable has took the World by Internet storm.

What surprised millions - and does not make a great statement about our World industrial culture but is a great example of the power of online video distribution as the video has been seen over 15.9 million times on YouTube (I counted over 10 videos with over 200,000 views) as of this writing - is that someone who looks like her could sing like that. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/abraham/detail?entry_id=38580

Yeeeeks!The judges should have been ashamed of themselves. They pre-judged her simply based on her appearance even before she began to sing. They had already decided that she was a frumpy old lady and started smirking, preparing to laugh at her and make snide remarks. They were practically exchanging "knowing": glances at one another as soon as she walked onstage. Instead she surprised them. Big Deal.

Why should they have been surprised at all? They are there to judge talent and they had fallen into the habit of judging based on superficial appearances. This says so much about the music industry and what is wrong with it. After all, would anybody be listening to Britney if she didn't shake her bum and jiggle her boobs in everybody's faces?

This is the fourth part of my interview with Vincent. He is relating his experience in a private company in Turkey.

So, then the Tax man came. What was this a regular inspection or..?

I doubt it. All I know is this guy suddenly appears and everybody goes nuts. Some old guy like Boris Karloff. Cheap polyester suit. Brown. With stripes. gray mustache and smelled like the cheapest brand of cigarettes.

Scary image.

Actually I wasn't all that scared. I didn't think I personally had anything to worry about. Everything I had signed was legit as far as I could tell.

What exactly was he looking for?

It didn't matter. Knowing Penguin and his wife, he was bound to find something. Anyway, those guys can always find something. It's their job. Penguin just made it real easy.

The first thing the Tax man said was that I shouldn't be in the office. I was a foreigner and I wasn't allowed to work.

But.. you were a partner in the company, right?

Yep.

You were not allowed to work at a company you were a partner in?

Shocking isn't it? As a matter of fact, his report didn't actually say I was working. I was merely in the office and suspected of working. But if you had asked me, I would have said that I was working. I thought.. I mean, I was told that it was all perfectly legal. Why would I lie about it?

Let me see if I got this right. You were allowed to be a partner. You are allowed to invest your own money in a company. But you are not allowed to come to the office?

According to what he said. But that's the funny thing about Turkey. There are no laws. Nothing is fixed. It changes depending on who you speak to. Today it is like THIS. Tomorrow you learn it was not like THIS.. who told you that? It is really like THAT.

So what did you do about the tax man?

According to what he said, I would have to pay a fine. I mean two fines. One for me personally. And one for the company. Since the company had hired me illegally.

Your company you mean?

Right.

I was plenty upset. Penguin and his wife were upset. In the end, Penguin paid the fines. After all, it was his mistake. Or the lawyer's, I mean. I was told over and over that I was legit. I wasn't a lawyer, I wasn't an expert in Turkish law. How could I know?

If Penguin paid the fines, then what was the problem? Was that the end of it?

Not quite. a month later, the foreigner's office called me. The police, I mean. They said I was to report to them the next morning.

Why?

They didn't say. They wouldn't tell me. But I asked Penguin.

And he said..?

Well I asked him if he knew why they might be calling. And his answer was, "No, not really." I just looked at him. Not really? Either you know or you don't.

So you think he must have known?

Of course. Also he kept making excuses why he couldn't pay my full monthly salary. He could only manage half. So I guess he knew something was about to happen. For me, it came out of the blue. And that was when my problems REALLY began.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

The TV show, LOST, has been going on now for five and a half seasons now. Suffice to say, it is a very involved and complicated show. For the first three seasons, the writers have built question upon question and left the readers to speculate. Now the mysteries are unraveling and long-time viewers are getting their long awaited payoff. However, viewers joining the show late will obviously never catch up. Here is what it sounds like when a veteran LOST viewer sits down to watch an episode with a late arrival.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

My first attempt at magazine publishing. Lots of mistakes, to be sure. Let me know what you think. I am not sure about the compatibility of Scribd for all browsers (Chrome had a problem on the full screen toggle mode)

There was always something suspicious about Batman and Robin. I think this is conclusive evidence. If nothing else, Freud would have had a field day with the imagery here. I am, in fact, mystified. What is it trying to show, discounting the perviness?

HA HA. Superman is so strong that he can- without any effort -suspend poor Batman and Robin in the air. That isn’t strength. It simply suggests he has a heavy butt. And besides, he should be watching the girl in the swing who is dare-deviling her way into a broken arm and the “week’s best video” on Akilla TV.

Monday, April 6, 2009

One time I worked as a warehouse/shipping and receiving clerk in a middle-sized distributing company in Oklahoma City. I can't say much for the job. The pay was average, the work was both boring and physically-demanding. The company sold everything related to gas stations. From the nozzles and hoses to the tall pumps and underground tanks. You would be surprised how many things actually go into the creation of a gas station. Surprised perhaps but not at all interested.

The owners, as far as I could determine, were two brothers. There was Kyle, a young man clearly in over his head who hated taking orders from his older brother, Russell. Between the two, Russell was the clever one but that was not saying an awful lot. I suppose they were satisfactory businessmen but only average people. And perhaps that is giving a bit more credit than they deserved.

One day, they decided to initiate to this motivational program which they probably spent a small fortune on. The program came as a set, video tapes with morale-bolstering lectures, audio tapes (presumably for drivers who were motivationally insatiable or illiterate) and workbooks to measure your rising levels of good cheer and effectiveness. The main aim of the program was not to make you happier or self-fulfilled or a better spouse. After all, why should any boss care about that? No, the idea was, through a series of sermons and idea-packed speeches, to make thou a better worker. And, if you are a better worker, it follows naturally, they stressed, that you would be a happier person. You would be fulfilling your life's mission and this would lead to satisfaction and God would shine his ever loving light on your cold stone of a heart. So went the theory anyway.

In Oklahoma, Capitalism and Christianity walked hand in hand like a pair of leather clad lovers on Castro Street. This was the 80s and under Reagan, it was unquestionably accepted that material success was God's way of blessing you. Like, go on buy yourself a mansion on the hill, you been a good soul. Material success was, above all, a sign (as if you really needed a sign, at all) there was only one true religion and ostentatious wealth was merely a confirmation for all the doubters that Christians, specially Re-Born and evangelical ones, were the chosen people.

Of course, to every flock, there are sheep that stray, eventually become lost and make easy pickings for the wolves that lurk in the shadows. Apparently those sheep make lousy workers, become unemployed, carelessly have lots of baby sheep and expect the shepherd to give them a free lunch on the backs of taxpayers.

There was quite a crammed market for motivational programs back then. By listening to motivational speakers telling you about what exactly was wrong with you and how, with a little fine tuning, you could be a better worker, the doors of opportunity would apparently fly open. At one point, all of the workers had to stand up in turn and announce to the others why we were poor employees and in what ways we had failed the company.

My co-worker, George was a cross between Jimmy Cagney and Archie Bunker. In Oklahoma, he was definitely as out of place as a lobster in the desert. He would chomp on the remains of a cigar and call everybody, "Butterball" From the first morning of the program, he was visibly skeptical. "I don't need anybody saving my soul. This is where I work. Churches are for that." The owners took no nevermind to George and dismissed him as a crank who would soon be retired.

We had to come in early three times a week to watch a tiresome video. It was, indeed, like going to a Southern Baptist revival. Zig Ziglar was of the Dale Carnegie species but with a emphasis on the Christian ethic. All very well and good but, coming to listen to his video lectures three times a week-at 8 in the morning yet- well, my enthusiasm waned pretty quickly.. (Wikipedia tells me that his first name was actually Hilary. Now I can understand why he would change his name. An unpromising childhood AND a girlie name? But, isn't it remarkable he would change it to Zig. Why not, Bert or Sidney? A disembodied voice perhaps inspired him.)

I don't actually remember much about him except his incessant drone and catchy quips. Chortling from the other workers was about the only thing that kept me awake. There were a few points I didn't disagree with but most of it was a bit heavy on the "God's plan" aspect. I imagine his scheme might work better on some people than it did on me. Maybe I was less of a lost sheep than a found wolf.

Ziglar told stories about his rather deprived childhood during the Depression and all he learned from it. How his grand success was a result of being right with God and, for a small fortune, he was quite willing to share what he had learned.

On one of the videos Ziggy said that, when somebody asks, "How are you?" instead of saying something typical like, "fine and you?" you should proudly and loudly say, "I am super good but I'll get better." Honestly. The reasoning behind it now escapes me. Something along the lines of self-suggestion. Believing is the most important part of being. I was sitting there and thinking, "if that isnt the most.." while everybody around me was nodding in agreement with blurred grins on their faces. Oklahoma was generally like that.

And worse than that? One of the owners, this bullish dull-witted guy named Jeb, would walk around greeting people and waiting for this-and only this- response. First time I answered (incorrectly. according to him) he glared at me like I was suddenly speaking Klingon or something. With some awkward prompting, he eventually got the words out of me. Soon I was doing my best to avoid him and eventually when cornered, I quit answering him altogether. I took to becoming a mute whenever he came into the warehouse.

In time, I found better things to do with my mornings (like snooze) and, since the owners were too cheap to pay us to attend the program, they could not, in turn, force us to comply. After that, everybody began thinking of excuses for non-attendance until there was one poor guy all alone in the meeting room, murmuring, "Super good.. super good, but.."

A few months later, George collapsed at work. Never missing an opportunity, the owners decided the time had come to put old Georgie out to pasture. Time had come to retire, old boy. At first he resisted but then, when the doctors told him they had found some shadows on his x-rays, he had to agree. I was left to run the entire warehouse alone which was no small task. Kyle promised to find help for me in the warehouse but that never came. Call it cost-saving.

In the following year, George would call, his voice getting weaker and weaker. I have to say, I didn't visit him as the brain tumor grew and his strength left him. I still regret it and wonder what I was afraid of.

It was the hottest part of a hot Oklahoma summer when George died. I recall sitting in the company car on the way to the cemetery as Russell openly debated with himself whether he should pay us for attending the ceremony or not. And if we were to be paid, should we receive full or half the normally hourly wage. I think this was the moment I decided that I'd begin looking for a new job.

I’d like to go back a bit. Now you had had problems with obtaining working permission, is that correct?

When I first started at this company, I kept asking the owners and the company lawyer whether they were sure it could be arranged. I told them that from my understanding, it is not exactly easy for a foreigner to get working permission unless under special circumstances.

The lawyer was a real clown. A round man with fat face that was always sweaty. When he did the Turkish kiss thing, it was like somebody pressing a cold slab of meat on your face. Let’s call him, Blimpo. He kept assuring me that this was a minor problem. I wasn’t a lawyer so what could I say, but I remember having my doubts. I even asked him, how sure he was.. out of a hundred percent.

And he said?

99%

In the end?

It never happened. Blimpo came back and said it couldn’t be done. There were new labor laws- a lie- and this made everything harder.

So that was when I made a counter offer. I asked the lawyer if I were a partner, say 2% share, would that make any difference. To my surprise, the owners thought this was a good idea too. So this is the way it went.

And when was this?

This was much earlier. I think it was in that first summer. I was only there for a year. Started in January of 2007. The time I am speaking about is around July of 2007.

Got it. So you became a partner in the company?

No. Not exactly. I guess Cat woman, Penguin’s wife, objected to it. Penguin came to me the next morning and suggested that we could start a new company. The strangest thing. I never had to put any money into at all. Penguin arranged the start up money.

So you were now a partner in a company.

Well, only 10 percent. He had told me that the company was a real one.. meaning, a profit making enterprise. But whenever I suggested ways of trying to make profit, he would change the subject or agree and nothing would happen.

So, like, what was the point? Besides giving you the right to work.

I think he used the company as a kind of tax dodge. Something slightly shady, I guess. Or maybe he was billing the client to his main company for services we were supposed to be giving his main company. I do know the one time I was able to see the books, I found a lot of things he would have trouble explaining to the tax man. Curtains and home furnishings. Of course, he kept the books under lock and key most of the time. I kept asking for a copy of my contract and an itemized list of expenditures and profits. But he would always make up some excuse. You have to remember he and his wife, Cat Woman, were never there. Or she would be there and he would be gone or the other way around.

But then, how did the company function?

It didn't. The employees were generally allowed to do whatever they wanted. I did my best but it was like playing chess with about 7 people at the same time. It was crazy. The worst employees were always given special treatment.

For example?

Example, this was a small to middle-sized company and yet he had company cars for four of the employees. He had bought them and they were allowed to drive them as personal cars. Taking them home every night and he even paid for gas. I asked him if it wouldn't be better to lease a car or maybe two and have them share the car when needed. He said, no. This is normal for a company. It makes the employees happy. He was always interested in making people happy. It was like our company mission.

One time he even made a bar on the roof of the building. It was really surreal.

Indeed. But how did he afford it?

Credit. Everything was put on credit. He had this stack of maybe 50 credit cards that he would flip through every time he bought anything. It made you dizzy to watch.

So let me get the time line straight. You started giving classes. Then you became the Human Resources Officer but as a partner in a completely different company. How did that work?

I was called a consultant. So the main company hired me as a Human Resource Consultant. But even that didn't make much sense. He had printed out business cards with the main companies name. I was also Business Development Officer too. I liked that a lot. But then he would lie to every potential client and badly.

What was his problem, do you think?

Well, he couldn't tell the truth. He would lie to his wife, he would lie to employees, to his girlfriend, to his client. Many times, it wasn't even necessary. He just liked to lie. It was some kind of ego thing, I guess.

Why? Weren't you ever suspicious?

I was. Of course, I was. But then he told me his lies and so, for some stupid reason, I thought he was not lying to me. Also, he and his wife took so little interest in the company, I supposed that I had some kind of importance at the company.

By the end of that year, what with the stupidity of management position, the sliminess of his business practices and his hostile wife, I was definitely ready to give my notice. I was fed up and stressed out. Not sleeping at night and waking up angry every morning. I just wanted to walk out.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

These photos were either lost, forgotten, or thrown away. The images now are nameless, without connection to the people they show, or the photographer who took them. Maybe someone died and a relative threw away their photographs; maybe someone thought they were trash.

Some of the photos were found on the street. Some were stacked in a box, bought cheap at a flea market. Showing off or embarrassed, smug, sometimes happy, the people in these photos are strangers to us. They can't help but be interesting, as stories with only an introduction.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

NPR.org, April 3, 2009 · Turkey was in the middle of an election campaign when I vacationed there three weeks ago, and two days into my stay, a new candidate seemed to have become an instant front-runner: Everywhere you looked, gazing back at you from a pop-art poster was President Obama.

Only instead of being pictured in shades of red and blue — as in Shepard Fairey's iconic "HOPE" poster — he's in shades of green. And the word "hope" has been replaced by numbers: 1.19 percent.

It's a bank ad — for Turkey's Garanti Bank. It's a weird ad, too, since in the U.S., the president's been sounding sort of cranky about the banking industry. (to continue reading ..)

One day a Turk decides to kill himself by jumping in front of the train. He also has a piece of bread in his hand. A guy walks up and asks, “What are you doing?” He says: “I am going to kill myself.” The other guy asks, “Why do you have bread in your hand? “He says, “What happens if the train doesn’t come, you want me to starve to death?”

A Turk who was carpenter was working with his son, suddenly the electric saw breaks and chops his ear off, after a few minutes searching his son founds an ear and says to his dad, “ Is this your ear?”
The father looks at the ear and says “No, mine had a pencil behind it.”

This is probably the real reason phone booths were discontinued in the USA. By the way, I have done some checking online and there really is a division of the police emergency squad specially trained in prying loose fat ladies from tight places. No kidding!

I figure the poor people at the Chinese spy center must work some long hours, so I can throw in this knee-slapper in case they have had a hard day at the mystery office, reading other people’s email and such. By the way, I read the translation for this joke and it wasn’t all that funny. But if they ARE listening, I wish they would send me a lot of new visitors to my blog!

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